Banish Misfortune
by rvr idtq
Summary: Two individuals fixated on death plummet into living hells: George seeks salvation in an unnamed nephew after the death of his twin; Neville is haunted by his parents' torturer. Set several years after OotP.
1. a ghost

Banish Misfortune

"C'mon George," said Bill as he held the baby at arm's length. "You know you want to."

"I don't really," sighed George, but he took the boy anyway, sitting him on his knee.

"Tea, George?" He began opening cabinet doors in search of cups without waiting for an answer.

George sighed and stared at the child. The whispy hair on his head was already a brilliant shade of orange, but his irises were far darker than Bill's own pale, watery blue ones.

"He's got his mother's eyes," said Bill as he put a kettle of water on the stove. George shuddered. He and Fred had done that often- made a remark only to find that the other had been thinking the same thing; it was almost telepathic. This, however, was nothing. Only coincidence. Only chance. Only another painful reminder.

The baby began to fuss. Bill went to the refrigerator and fished out a bottle. He tapped his wand to it to warm it.

"Here," he said, handing it to George, "feed him this."

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"Feed the baby before he starts crying."

"You still haven't named him yet."

"Feed him quick. I'm not messing about."

George grunted and put the bottle to the baby's mouth. "I'm not stupid. What does Molly want?"

"Here's your tea."

"She told you to invite me over. I'm not stupid."

Bill smirked and sat down opposite him. "Then why did you come?"

George shifted in his seat. "You have to name this kid. You can't keep calling him 'the baby.'"

"Her last suggestion was Michel. You can't expect me to agree to that."

"Yeah, but suggesting Aubrey was pretty pathetic on your part."

"You never did muggle studies, did you?"

"Nah. You did though I remember."

"Yeah. It was crap. But I ended up with this book once. It was about muggle art."

"Does this have anything to do with where you got Aubrey from?"

"Stop interrupting. Anyway, it was pretty interesting when I didn't read too much of the words. There was this artist who did a lot of illustrative type stuff in the 1890s, kind of a weird guy. And it mentioned something about him getting in trouble a lot for his art being too erotic."

"Don't tell me his name was Aubrey, Bill."

"I told you, don't interrupt. I was thirteen, and, of course, after that I had to find more of his art. So that summer we went into Diagon Alley to get school supplies- mum, Charlie, and me- and I got Charlie to distract her while I snuck off into muggle London. I found a bookshop, looked the guy up, and found a book about him."

"You didn't steal it, did you?"

"Don't be dumb. I traded a muggle-born friend at school for muggle money before I came home that summer. So I bought the book, hid it under my jumper, and found mum and Charlie."

"Where the hell is this going, Bill?"

"Why are you so impatient? I stayed up all night reading it. There were a lot of pictures, so I finished it early in the morning."

George now smirked. "Were you disappointed then?"

"No. Plenty of nudity. Exactly what I was looking for. But it was pretty funny as well. This artist, he was weird, but interesting-weird, not creepy-weird, and he was damn funny as well. He died really young of a muggle illness. But before he died, people kept shunting him about to different places that they thought would make him better. They made him stay at this one house called 'Muriel,' and he wrote to a friend about how the house made him feel shy in the way 'a boy at school is of his Christian name when it is Ebenezer or Aubrey.'"

"And his name was Aubrey, thus making it funny beyond all comprehension."

"Don't be so sarcastic. Yes, his name was Aubrey, and that's exactly why I wanted to name the baby that."

"Did you tell her all that then?"

"Oh, that'd go over well. 'I want to name him Aubrey because it was the name of an artist who drew pictures that I found very amusing when I was thirteen because they were very nearly pornographic.'"

"Nah, she'd think it was funny. I think it's funny at least, wanting to name your kid after a pervert."

"He wasn't a pervert. He was challenging the prudishness of Victorian England."

"Whatever. He still made nudie pictures." George smiled wanly and shifted the weight in his arms. "He's kind of scrawny looking, this one."

"No, he's not."

"Yeah he is. He's already going all gangling like you were."

"A baby can't be gangling."

"This one is."

"Oh hell, George."

"Shh...virgin ears are present." He smirked broadly.

"You seem to be in a better mood."

"No I'm not. I'm pissed beyond all reason, and I plan on remaining pissed for all eternity. I'm only smiling for Aubrey's benefit."

"I thought you said Aubrey was a pathetic name."

"It is. But it's better than 'the baby' and definitely better than Michel."

"She wants you to clean out his stuff. She thinks it'll be cathartic."

"Like hell it'll be. I knew she asked you to have me over."

"What are you going to do with it all?"

"Personally, I'm keen on just burning the lot of it and becoming a hermit."

"So why haven't you?"

"I think the landlord'd be a bit miffed to see the place go up in flames. Besides, someone has to defend Aubrey here from the evils of parents with creative naming ideas."

"You need to clean it out. I don't want to jump on you about it George, but-"

"Then shut the hell up. And take him back. He's a bit squishy now." He held the baby at arm's length.

"Change it yourself."

"Change what?"

"His nappy. It probably needs a change."

"Since when am I his nurse?"

"I changed plenty of your nappies back in the day."

"Oh yeah. I forgot you were so old."

"Shut up, you prat and change the bloody nappy."

"His first word'll be 'bugger,' I bet."

"Only if you teach it to him."

"I might just."

"But you're going to go off and be a hermit."

"Well, I'll be a hermit, but I'll come and visit Aubrey here to teach him nasty things when you're not looking."

"She'll hate you for it."

"I don't think she really liked any of us but you to begin with. Besides, you and Charlie did the same for...for us." He faltered and turned his eyes back to the baby. "Where are the clean ones then?"

"On the table there."

"That thing with all the lace? I thought it was her desk."

"Don't be dumb."

George crossed to the table and laid the baby down. He fumbled with the fastenings at first, but soon the dirty one was off and a new one nearly on.

"He's crying now."

"And?"

"Make him stop."

"Do it yourself."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I dunno. Sing to him. She's always singing to him in French."

"Sorry, my French is a bit rusty," he muttered sarcastically.

"Sing in English, you prat."

"You're setting a bad example now. And anyway, I don't know any songs. Not any that I'd sing to a baby at least." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"And you accuse me of being lewd."

"I don't know any songs."

"Didn't mum ever sing to you? She sang to us plenty."

"Yeah she did, but I don't remember."

"Yes you do."

"There was one...."

"Go on then."

"No."

"If he dies of over exhaustion because he cried too long, I'm telling her it's your fault."

"Oh, bugger off. Everything's my fault."

"Just do something."

"You're the father."

"C'mon George."

"Fine. Fine." He muttered incoherently. Slowly he began,

"In form and feature, face and limb,

I grew so like my brother,

That folks got taking me for him, 

And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,

It reached an awful pitch;

For one of us was born a twin,

Yet not a soul knew which."

He paused, but then, possessed by some strange force, he sighed and carried on,

"One day (to make the matter worse),

Before our names were fixed,

As we were being washed by nurse

We got completely mixed;

And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,

(Or rather nurse's whim),

My brother John got christened _me_,

And I got christened _him_.

The fatal likeness ever dogged

My footsteps when at school,

And I was always getting flogged,

For John turned out a fool.

I put this question hopelessly

To everyone I knew-

What _would_ you do, if you were me,

To prove that you were _you_?"

The baby no longer cried, but he could not stop. He was tumbling down a hill, chanting words he no longer though he knew.

"Our close resemblance turned the tide

Or my domestic life;

For somehow my intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In short, year after year the same

Absurd mistakes went on;

And when I died- the neighbors came

And buried brother John!"

"I'm sorry George. I didn't mean-"

"Like hell you're sorry. Everyone's sorry, but sorry doesn't mean crap."

"George-"

"No. No George. Not anymore. That's what happened, you know. Just like in the bloody song."

"George-"

"It's true. He didn't die. I did. I felt it. I felt it all go away, but he's the one in the ground."

"I know you're upset-"

"I'm not upset. I'm fucking angry. I hate him. I hate them for burying him. I should have buried myself. I should burn myself. I should burn him."

"Don't be an ass, George."

"Who's being an ass? It's all my fault, isn't it?"

"You're not a damn martyr, George."

"What if I am? What if I'm nothing? What if I'm just a walking corpse that should be six feet under while he's down there when he's meant to be living."

"You can't bring him back."

"Like hell. I'm digging him up. He'll be back."

"George-"

"I don't care anymore! I don't feel anymore! People keep telling me I'll be sad for a while, but I'm not sad at all. I'm just nothing."

"Drink your tea."

"It'll go right through. I'm a ghost, I swear. I'm a ghost. There's nothing here. You can put your hand right through me."

"I knew it would be this way. I knew when you were still in nappies it would be like this if one of you...."

"You should have done it then. You should have killed both of us then."

"Listen to yourself, George."

"I can't. I'm a ghost, remember? I'm mad. I'm mad. I'm mad."

"George, calm down."

"I'm calm. Oh, I'm calm. It's you that's not. Put your hand through me, Bill. See for yourself."

"The baby, George."

"Oh hallo, Aubrey. I forgot you were here. It's a helluva world, Aubrey Ebenezer Weasley. And it's especially good for you since your name's so loverly and you've got such a wonderful uncle. I'm a ghost, you know. I'm already dead, so I know all about life."

"You'll wake him."

"Then he'll wake."

"George-"

"It's a helluva world, Aubrey."

"Mum told me. About you, I mean. And about how you've been going out every night."

"And who told her? Has she been sending perfect Percy around after me?"

"Lee told her. Everyone's worried."

"Why worry? I'm already dead. What can happen?"

"You've got to stop drinking like that. They won't even let you back in the Leaky Cauldron if you don't stop."

"So? There are other pubs. And I'm dead anyway. You can stop a ghost. I can walk through walls, you know."

Bill sighed. "I'll take him if you want."

"No. I want to hold the little bugger now. He's growing on me. I think I'm getting attached."

"Drink your tea, George."

"Bill?"

"Yes?"

"Where am I? I mean really? I can't remember."

"You never were serious."

"I am now. I swear. You can't take the mickey when you're dead."

"George-"

"Little Aubrey'll be the only boy in school with a ghost for an uncle."

"You're not the ghost, George."

"Shut it, Bill."

"He is. You won't let him go."

"Shut it."

"He was happy. You were happy. But you won't let him go."

"You know, she came by the other day. I was passed out on the floor, but she undid the locking charms and made me get up. Even got me to change my underwear. She made me tea, Bill, and then she kissed me."

"George, who're you talking about?"

"She kissed me! She's his girlfriend!"

"She's confused, George, just like you are."

"Worst part was I liked it. I kissed her back, and I liked it," he gasped for air. "She's his girlfriend!"

"Do you want to spend the night?"

"She hates me. You know she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you."

"No. She only ever liked you. She only pretends sometimes."

"C'mon George. She's working the late shift, so you won't even have to see her. The sofa's not bad."

"He was wearing my sweater when it happened. We were feeling nostalgic so we put on each other's again. What the hell are you supposed to do then?"

"I don't know, George."

"All his clothes. What the hell am I supposed to do with his clothes?"

"I can clean his room out for you, George."

"And then what? It'll still be there. Better to burn it all. Better to burn myself. Only ghosts can't burn."

"George-"

"Not George. Not anymore." He looked down at the baby and smiled. "Just like in the bloody song, Aubrey, just like in the song."

~~~~~

a/n: The artist mentioned is a real person; Aubrey Beardsley was an important name in the art nouveau movement and died of tuberculosis at the age of 25. The quotation Bill makes is referenced in the book Aubrey Beardsley: A slave to beauty. The song is really a poem titled "The Twins" by Henry Leigh, and the reference to George's sweater is an allusion to J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. The title, "Banish Misfortune," is also the title of a traditional Irish folksong. I don't know why Bill has a refrigerator, so don't ask me. As to the characters who remained unnamed, you can probably guess who they are, but if you can't it doesn't really matter. Thanks for reading all the way through.


	2. otherwise

Otherwise

/

"Say your prayers, you sonofabitch," whispered the boy through his artfully touseled (not tusseled) black hair. The figure on the ground could only quiver with the thought that soon she would be in hell, forever haunted by this child's face. The boy's lips curled over mostly straight, mostly white teeth. "This is the end."

"I know."

"No. You don't. But you will." He pointed the polished stick at the figure on the ground, squinting to better aim it point blank. On the chest, slightly to the right. Right through her heart. He whispered something and a blast of light exploded from the wand. It bucked back, taking the boy with it, pulling on the sinews in his arms, but all the figure could see was the light, traveling so slowly, so gently, sliding through her like glass and then-

"I hope you choke."

Sliding and adieu.

/

"I'm dead now. Not. Nothing. Just dead." His eye blear. He sees the face in the words. On the edge. In the cage. He wishes. He was dead. "Just a child. Just a child, gran." 

He cries and descends. Into hell. The devil's way in. 

He is the boy. He is the figure. He is death.

/

this is the end

until tomorrow

or next year at latest

goodnight

gotosleep

hARry laughed bitterly˛

"AH, teh bitTeR LAUgh," noted Draco.

"lOVE," said Harry fLATly. His voice held NO INTONation.

No DIsc. fUnnctionn


	3. misc madness

**wolfs•bane** n.

1. Any of several poisonous perennial herbs of the genus _Aconitum_, especially _A. lycoctonum_, having broad, rounded leaves, elongate racemes, and purple-lilac flowers.

2. See **monkshood**.

**monks•hood** n.

1. A slender, erect, poisonous perennial herb (_Aconitum napellus_) native to northern Europe, having violet flowers and whose dried leaves and roots yield aconite. Also called wolfsbane.

2. See **aconite**.

**ac•o•nite** n.

1. Any of various, usually poisonous perennial herbs of the genus _Aconitum_, having tuberous roots, palmately lobed leaves, blue or white flowers with large hoodlike upper sepals, and an aggregate of follicles.

2. The dried poisonous roots of these plants, used as a source of drugs. Also called monkshood.

[French _aconit_, from Latin _aconitum_, from Greek _akoniton_.]

**wolfs•bane** n.

1. Any of several poisonous perennial herbs of the genus _Aconitum_, especially _A. lycoctonum_, having broad, rounded leaves, elongate racemes, and purple-lilac flowers.

2. See **monkshood**.

**monks•hood** n.

1. A slender, erect, poiSONous perennial herb (_Aconitum napellus_) native to northern Europe, having violet flowers and whose drId leaves and roots yield aconite. Also called wolfsbane.

2. See **aconite**.

**wolfs•bane** n.

1. Any of several poisonous perennial herbs of the genus _Aconitum_, especially _A. lycoctonum_, having broad, rounded leaves, eLongate racemes, and purple-lilyac flowers.

2. See **monkshood**.

**ac•o•nite** n.

1. Any of various, usually poisonous perennial herbs of the genus _Aconitum_, having tuberous roots, pALMately lobed leaves, blue or white flowers with large hoodlike upper sepals, and an aggregate of fOllYcles.

2. The dried poisonous roots of these plants, used as a source of drugs. Also called monkshood.

[French _aconit_, from Latin _aconitum_, from Greek _akoniton_.]

**ac**

**•**

**o**

**•**

**nite**

n.****

dried 

poisonous 

roots 

of these 

Plants

dried poisonous roOTs of these plants

dried poiSONous roOTs of these plants

used as a source of drugs.

uSED

UEsd

aS a souRce of

srouce of

drugS

drug

rdug

dRug

**wolfs•bane**

**-**

I wake, and at first I think it was all a dream. 

But no, I'm on a sofa that smells like formula. I have no headache, and that is strange. My stomach does not hurt, and that is strange too. I know what I want, but it's gone, so I think instead of second best. I pull my legs up into mountains and then push down my heels. My head and back slide over the armrest. I feel my spine grinding and smile. I stretch, touch the ground, and groan.

I am up, and the second best calls to me. I open the cupboards, but nothing is there. There are glasses, long stems and delicate bowls, some shorter, more imposing, but nothing else. I remember, clever Bill. Head boy. He knows better. He doesn't trust me. He shouldn't. 

I check the clock and see most places will be closed. I find my coat anyway, but suddenly the tea has run through me and I have to piss. I go upstairs for the bathroom. It is a small house, but good. I go, but then I hear a noise. Do they notice me?

But no, it is the other room, the door ajar, his loneliness creeping around the door. I step in, and suddenly he's in my arms. He smells like formula too and sighs. My coat smells like vomit, I notice. Good boy. Good boy.

My back hits the wall and I slide, slide down. Sliding. 

On the floor, it is cold, but he is warm. I hold him softly and he sleeps and I sleeps.

-

She gasped, and he ran in behind her, razor in hand, dripping with foam.

"What did, what did he do!"

"Fleur-"

"No! I don't care! I don't care if he is your brother! What if he hurt him?"

"He wouldn't, Fleur."

"You said your mother said he is a drunk. You let a drunk stay in our house? You let him hold our child? What if he is hurt?"

"He's fine, Fleur. They both are, see? They're just sleeping."

"Why is he here? I thought he was downstairs!"

"Calm down. Calm down." He put his empty hand on her shoulder. "He couldn't sleep, I guess, and came up here. I don't think he knows what he's doing anymore."

"All the more reason to leave him with our child!" she snarled. "I remember him from Hogwarts that year. The two of them, they were awful. And you leave him with our child?"

"He doesn't know what to do anymore. They were always so close, and now...."

"I know. Believe me, I know. But he's not safe."

"He wouldn't hurt Aubrey. I know he wouldn't."

She turned. "You called him Aubrey?"

"George did. Yesterday. Aubrey Ebenezer."

"But I thought-"

"I know. But that's what George calls him now, and it is better than nothing."

"Aubrey Ebenezer is a ridiculous name."

"I think that's why he liked it. Besides, no worse than Bilius."

"I will not let our child be named that."

"That's fine. But that's what he's calling him."

"Your brother, he is mad. Why should I care what he calls the baby?"

"Because at least he's calling him something."

She sighed. "Fine, fine. I don't care. Get ready for work, and I'll get the baby."

"Leave him. Just for a moment."

"But-"

"I think it's the first peace he's had in a while, Fleur. Just a minute more won't hurt."

"Fine."

"And Fleur-"

"Yes?"

"I think he should be godfather."

-

He was eleven, but already he had the marks of being tall like his father. Thinned veela blood made his structure more delicate, but still his outline was his father's. His hair was red too, but when the sun hit it just right there would be a glimmer of blond within it. He was pale and thin and walked alongside a man who was much the same and yet very different.

The man was still young, but oddly so. His face was clean shaven, but even at this early hour there was a ginger shadow creeping across it. His eyes were brown and tired, laugh lines crashed against deep shadows beneath. He was gaunt, skin stretched across a once robust, muscular body. He looked like the dead clinging onto life.

Three months alone had wrought such a change. Three months? No, eleven years. Now flecks of grey marred the coarse ginger hair sticking up without reason.

But he smiled, and the boy smiled too. Today was a good day. Today was wand day.

The boy stared up at the store front. Mum and dad had wanted to come, but couldn't. Uncle would take him instead. Uncle smiled at him. They crossed the threshold.

Welcome, said the wandman. Starting at Hogwarts?

Uncle nodded and nudged him in the back. Go on.

He tried one wand, then another. Third time's the charm, said Uncle. He was right. The wand tingled and erupted with sparks. Good one, Aub.

You must be proud, said the wandman. A fine boy.

He is, said Uncle, but his heart fell and he saw. He was not Uncle's fine boy. He was mum and dad's. Uncle had no boy. Uncle was alone.

They left the store and Aub thought, I have four father's brothers, one father's sister, and one mother's sister, but only Uncle is alone. But there was another father's brother. He is dead. I never met him, but he looked like Uncle.

Uncle was godfather too. Sometimes Uncle would disappear and come back tired and sick and smelling funny. But dad always let him come and so did mum. He always came. He lived in a small flat. He made money, but how? No matter.

Uncle would die soon. Really die this time. He knew it and Aub saw it in his face. He would die and he would be happy. Uncle was never happy long now. Uncle wasn't ever happy long. Gran cried over Uncle. He had seen her. But if Uncle died, she couldn't cry anymore.

Uncle took Aub home and made him lunch and waited until dad came home. A fine boy, said the wandman. Then Uncle left for his home that wasn't.

Uncle wrote a note, It's all for Aub, and signed it. Then he took his wand and pointed to his heart. It stopped and Aub was gone and Uncle woke.

-

"What?"

"George-"

"Fleur, oh, sorry. I didn't mean.... He was crying, and I held him, but then I fell asleep too."

"It is all right."

"No. I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I could have dropped him."

"But you didn't. He is fine. He really seems to like you."

"Where's Bill? Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so pathetic. I shouldn't have stayed."

"No. I am glad. We never get to see you. You are always gone now. It was good for you to come. It was good for you to see Aubrey."

"Is that his name now?"

"Yes. I wasn't serious with Michel. Aubrey is fine. My mother will be furious, but...."

"I'm so sorry, Fleur. I know you don't like me much."

"No. Don't be silly. It is fine."

"I didn't mean to-"

"It is fine."

"George, are you awake?" called Bill from the bathroom.

"Yeah." He groaned and stood. "I'm up."

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Funny dream, but I'm fine." He rubbed his face in his hands, massaging the jaw for a moment, feeling the ginger bristle along it. Then he slapped his cheeks and smiled weakly. "Hey, Bill?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I borrow your razor when you're done?"

Bill smiled into the mirror. "Sure. Clean it when you're through though."

"Thanks. I won't stay long. I should go home and...and change." He turned back to Fleur. "Really, I'm sorry to have barged in on you like this."

"It is fine. Really. You can come back when you want as well. You are a good brother, and Bill loves you."

"I'm sorry, Fleur." He frowned for a moment but then smiled again, rubbing the fluff along the baby's head. "He's a fine boy, Fleur, a fine boy."

"George," she began slowly, softening the 'g's with her foreign tongue, "I want you to be godfather."

-

His wizarding wireless crackled with static for a moment before settling. He stumbled through the stations as he always did but then settled on one where electronic twitchings were hidden behind a thrumming pair of drum and guitar. It must be the muggle hour on WW4. It was a novelty really, the muggle hour. The disc jockey, Thelonius Nast, would spend hours, so he claimed, digging up strange muggle music to awe his wizarding audiences with. It was popular, but only for the commentary. The songs were abysmal, further fueling magical perceptions of muggles as boorish fools. He sighed. He hated the muggle hour, and so did Gran. But this song was different, eerie. Did Nast find it as disturbing as he did? He could wait til the end and see, but he didn't want to really. It was haunting, this song, like a dream he couldn't shake, like _the_ dream.

"Either way you turn," wailed the distorted voice, "I'll be there." He sounded almost drunk, this muggle. His words slurred and tumbled into each other. "Open up your skull, I'll be there. Climbing up the walls...." He shuddered and reached for the switch but found he couldn't. "It's always best when the light is off. It's always better on the outside." The words blurred further, becoming unintelligible, but then, "Fifteen blows to your mind...."

Electronic trumpets screeched. He had to hit the switch, turn the radio, his mind, off. The pain, the wailing. The switch was stuck. He pounded it and then there was silence.

He counted things he couldn't count. Seventeen. No kisses outside relatives.

No...mixing. A child. No girlfriend. No lover. No job. No prospects. Birthday in two months but already of age. Can't apparate. Can use magic. Likes plants. (What the hell?) Toad dead. In the ground. Mum not. Dad not. But as good as. No dreams. No hopes. Friends- where are they? Leaves school soon and then what? Everyone's out, common room empty. Insomniac. Amnesiac. Aphrodisiac.

Fifteen galleons. Could borrow Harry's map. Go out. A night on the town. Would be good, no? 

"Aren't you coming, Neville? It's the final," asked a straggler.

"Oh. Yeah. Be down in a minute. Go down without me."

"Okay. See you there."

"Yeah."

-

a/n: the song is a real one, the Radiohead song "climbing up the walls." I don't own it, just as I don't own any of this really. Go listen to it if you dare. Dictionary definitions borrowed from the American Heritage Dictionary. If you haven't figured it out, there's no structure to any of this, and really no plot. I like anarchy, see? Why Neville, why George? Because I said so.


	4. decline and fall

"Jeh neh says pahs."

"Eh?"

"It's all the French I know."

"Oh." She blushed. "Very...very good."

"No. I'm not stupid. I know I'm crap."

"You're not-"

"No. Anyway, I'll be off once I clean up a bit."

"Really, George-" Again the softened 'g's.

"No. I'm enough rubbish without matted hair and a half-arsed beard."

"Have whatever you want from the kitchen, George," said Bill, passing him the razor as they passed in the hall.

"Anything?" smirked George. "Even for a drunk?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Just nothing. I don't eat anymore."

/

dEAR bOy

I see your fAce. do you seemine? I waiT for YOU. do uyo wait for mE?

I know your mother's last woRDS. do you? no, youdon't.

i kNow your father 's last wordsss. do yuo? no, of course not

i willcome for YOU. wait, boy. beagoodboy.

I hear yuro voiceee. I know

you hearmine.

dontdieboy. I willcome. youwillsee.

DEar Boy,

write me a ppeom poem bbbboooy

about yourmother yOurfather

letme seE youRR pain on pAPerrr

i willcome

youwillsee

youwill

die

deaRR byo

iknow yUo. BOY. youwilldie a BOY unlessss

imake you aMan

od you want to be aMan?

yyes bot bor boyy

monkshood is wolfsbane is aconite is drug is aconite is wolfsbane is monkshood is wolfsbane is aconite is drug is aconite is wolfsbane is monlkshoodd is wollfsbane iss aconte is drug is aconite is drug is drug is drug is drug is dead is death is me is now is good is me is boy

is

drug

is 

man

is

sebun

se

sebunteen

/

I leave the house clean. I smell like soap, but my coat is still vomit. I don't care. I walk. Not apparate. It is silent. Silent. Silent night? No. No night. No cold. Just quiet.

I walk and I am at her house. Not house. How? Did I know. I don't know. It is hers. He is hers. He is mines. Mine am hers. 

I knock. She comes. Hallo. Have you eaten? No. Come in? Yes. Are you all right? Of course. I am dead.

I eat her bread. I ask for wine, but she laughs. Coffee is worse, but I drink it. I am hers.

Her house, her flat, her roof is quiet. Silent. Silent. Sucha quiet. No-one home but us. I am hers.

More toast? No. An egg? No. A kiss? Yes.

Her mouth is warm. I taste blood, cracked lips. Mine or hers? Mine is hers. I feel sick. Will vomit. This is why coat smells. I do. Not on coat. Not on her. Sink. On dishes. Wine glasses I see. Where is wine? I wipe my, her, mouth. Water in and all clean. Kiss again? Yes, please. Mine is hers. I am hers. I am dead. She is dead. Together. On a bed. That smells like air. No air. Where is shit, shirt? No matter. 

She is his. He is mines. Hers is mines? Did he? Do I? Too late. Does she know? Does I? Where. what.

Not clean now. Can I shower, can I shave? She asks me why. I am dirty. She is dirty. Hers is mines, dirt and sweat. 

Will I stay? I am dead. What? She is dead. She cries. I cries, but do not show. I broke his. His toy? No. His. Broken. Mine broken. 

I remember. Hargid, hagrid gone. Woman brings horses but not. What is word? Unicorn. Didn't like me anyway.

I lay in her bath with no water, no shirt, no nothing. The white is cold against my skin. I shiver all over. Silent. Cold. White. Christmas. 

The tub is too small. I can-not drown. I get out and find my top, my bottoms. Dressed, I brush my hair, I slap my cheeks. I stick my head in sink and am wet. A towel, I am dry. I am broken. Throw me away. I am dead.

I remember the Aubrey and I am alone. In her bathroom. In her house, flat, roof.

I see grey in the ginger. I am over.

/

Shouldn't seventeen be something more? Small, looking up, it had been wonderful. It had been tall and handsome and clever. But from this side it was the same as always. Same Neville, only closer to death.

He examined himself slowly. A small cut ran for about an inch along his forearm. It was thin and delicate, almost too small to scab, but the the clotted blood was there, a pale line amid paler flesh and sparse, dark, disordered hair. Pink around the edges. Sore when he touched it. But how? He didn't remember. A bruise on his knee as well, yellow and sickly brown. A pale scar on his other arm, next to a mole, below a pinprink freckle. A small scar on his knuckle, he remember there since childhood. But these? Where and when? He couldn't remember. He never remembered.

He didn't want to.

A dog-eared copy of a book in his hands, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. The name inside the cover was no longer his. There it was large and round and crooked. Now his handwriting was tight, tentative, straight. Her was stretched and scrawling. No, not her. Don't remember.

He looked up things he knew by heart. It was comforting. They never changed. Wolfsbane, monkshood, aconite. The same since the very first day.

He heard a roar from out the window. Someone had scored. Gryffindor. They all cheered for Gryffindor, but only Slytherin cheered for Slytherin. Gryffindor would win. Gryffindor always wins. Good over evil, but not. She was evil, but must not think.

He could go, he thought, and see the end. But would anyone miss him? Yes, perhaps. But he didn't care anymore.

In his trunk there was a box. A box with special things, a special box. Cheap metal, bent into a treasure chest, painted blue and red and gold. Paint chipping though, the tin showing through. He had found it in the room that was always closed. It was his treasure now. 

He took it out and opened it. Each thing was precious. A twig of a tree. A popped balloon. A broken pin. Tiny bits of paper. Trash, but not. A plastic gem. A dried up pen. A book on ancient Greece, green binding dissolving. Now the dog-eared book was back on top. His special things, his special box. Back in the trunk, wrapped in old robes, sealed with tired dreams.

He could go, he thought again. There was still time. But no.

Now he took his pocket money, birthday money, Christmas money and dumped it onto his bed. He counted it exactly and slid it all into a pouch and then into his pocket. But first he held the cool metal until it turned warm with his touch and made his fingers smell of metallic age. He hated that smell when he was small, when his fingers were always to his face, middle and forefinger between his lips. He hated it still. He washed his hands with soap and then boiling water to take away the smell of the soap. Sensitive to smells, even though his nose was nearly always clogged with allergies or cold. Soil smelled good, of life and growth, but this metal smell was sick filth. Sick filth. Vomit and death.

/

"Get off your arse, you prat!" called a voice banging on a door. Where? "I'll blow the hinges off!"

He grunted.

"Open up! I know you're there!"

"Shut it, sonofabitch. Be a pal and let me wallow."

"I'm not leaving."

"Fine." He grunted again and pulled himself off the floor. A old friend peered through the window, and he let him in.

"It's nearly noon."

"I know."

"Then why were you still sleeping? Don't tell me you went out again...."

"I heard about you, bloody snitch."

"Yeah, I told your mum, but only cause I'm afraid you'll end up in a ditch somewhere. Besides, you know how she is."

"Yeah. Still."

"Where were you then. I came around last night."

"My brother's."

"Which one?"

"Bill, you ass. Slept on his couch."

"Then why were you passed out on the floor a minute ago."

George snorted. "I was not passed out. I was thinking."

"Yeah? About what?"

"About trying to bum a fiver off you when you decided to show up."

"I'm not your mother."

"Yeah. You just come around every day cause I'm such lovely company."

"I come around because I'm worried about you because I'm your friend."

He snorted again.

"You're such a git, George. But you're my friend. And I miss him too."

"Shut it about him. We're not on speaking terms anymore."

Lee picked up a bundle laying on the ground. "Your coat smells like shit."

"No. Vomit, not shit."

"Whatever. You need to clean this."

"I've grown attached to the smell."

"You would." He tossed the coat across the room. "Bill married the French girl, right?"

"Yeah. They've got a kid now. Named Aubrey Ebenezer."

"What the hell?"

"Bill's idea, but I made it permanent apparently."

"Nice job. The kid'll hate you for life."

"So? I hate myself. At least I'll have company."

"You're such a bastard sometimes."

He was silent for a moment, thinking, but then, "I saw her this morning."

"Who?"

"Angelina. She came round the other day, and I went to see her."

"And?"

"And I think I'll kill myself."

"George-"

"No. I'm serious. I'm so tired and so sick of it. I'm sick of myself."

"How is she?"

"Fine." He turned to the window. "No. Not fine."

"Taking it badly?"

"I killed her, Lee. She's dead too. Just like me."

"Stop screwing around."

"I can't. I didn't mean to. I did."

"Did what?"

"No. Never mind. Go home Lee."

"No. You'll just go out again."

"I can't. No money, see?" He turned out the pockets of his slacks. "Unless you lend me a fiver."

"You'll find a way."

"Fine. You're right. I will. But a fiver'd make it easier."

"Damn you." He fumbled in his pocket. "Where'd you get 'fiver' anyway? The don't make wizard fivers."

"Harry, I think. It sounded nice."

"If you die, Molly'll kill me." He handed over some coins.

"Good. More company then."

/

a/n: With the not eating and the grey hair, George is shaping up to be something like Holden Caulfield. His first person sections are also decidedly As I Lay Dying influenced. He sounds sort of like Vardaman in retrospect. (By the way, I haven't been smoking anything, Sarah...not yet at least.) Sebunteen or Seventeen is a book by Kenzaburo Oe. Various Radiohead references abound, particularly in the more abstract sections. I've been listening to their album "OK Computer" far too much as I've been writing this. Also, the first person George section owes something to the Beatles song "Norwegian Wood." You can read the lyrics at: 

The scene with Lee and George is sort of a parallel to a scene between Charles and Sebastien in Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.

Canon allusions include the first potions lesson in SS where Snape asks Harry what the difference is between monkshood and wolfsbane and Grubbly-plank's (is that how it's spelled?) lesson with unicorns in GoF. 

I also meant to mention at the end of the last chapter that Thelonius Monk (jazz pianist) + Thomas Nast (political cartoonist) = Thelonius Nast. Go figure.

There's more I could explain, but I think this a/n is too long already.


	5. badsd

I remember.

I remember spring holiday. At Uncle Algie's. He was mixing drinks. I wasn't. I was gone. Somewhere. I don't remember. And then I came and the kitchen was empty but the bottles were on the counter. Irish creme liquer. Pretty brown translucent glass, I thought, and picked it up. I held it to the light and swirled it slowly. The milky liquid tumbled against the glass. My hand glowed. Divine. Powerful. Every line sharp and defined. Something beautiful in every wrinkle. Each hair was golden, pale and soft. Soft and smooth. Was it an hour I stood there, holding the bottle to the light? I don't know. 

I set it down and then thought, I could open it. I could drink it. No-one would know. It would taste sweet, I thought. Sweet and good. I could smell it through the glass. I would open it and taste. I could drink it all and no-one would know. What would it feel like, to be drunk? Would I know when it came? Would I regret?

I could open and taste. No glass. Straight from the bottle. I saw myself twist off the cap the hold it to the light a second time. This time I tilted it and the cool liquer fell into my mouth. Soft and smooth. Good and sweet. No-one would know. I would feel nothing. Nothing is good.

And then I was there, staring at the bottle on the counter. Imagining, not doing. 

I left and was gone.

Aren't I good?

Yes. Always good.

~~~~~

He awoke to find no peace of mind. The alcohol had slid from his brain, leaving a roughly hewn path of throbbing pain. His eyes bleared as he struggled to focus. 

He groaned. He did not remember, but there he was, on his floor, clothes on, smelling like the obscenities that reeled from his lips.

But it was a new day, he thought sarcastically as the sunlight poured salt on his wounds. Always a new day.

He wanted to leave but had no place to go. He wanted to work, but had nothing to do. So he was contented with lying on the cold, hard floor nursing a cold, hard headache.

But Lee. Lee would be by. "Damn."

He stood slowly, testing the groaning joints gingerly at first. A knock came. His head throbbed. He thought of sneaking away but didn't. No, he went to the door and opened it.

"George-"

"No. Goway. Don wanna talk," he slurred over a misplaced tongue.

"You're ill-"

"No. You make me. I make me."

"George-"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"No." He moved to close the door, but she was too fast. She slid round the edge and was suddenly behind him.

"George-"

"I don care! Don care what you say!"

"About yesterday-"

His tongue slid back into place. "I know about yesterday! I was there yesterday! I'm your second best. I've had my second best now, and it's made me sick."

"I know it was...."

"It wasn't anything but two pathetic asses looking in the wrong place for something that can't be found!"

"Stop yelling at me."

"I'm not! I'm yelling at me because I'm stupid and disgusting and filthy! Whether you are too is your own business."

"_He_ is my business."

"He's not! He's gone, and he was mine first!" He jerked the door open. "Go. Now. Before I kill you too."

"You didn't-"

"I did! I did! Go before I do it again!" 

She walked out, turned with her mouth open, but then turned away. She walked away from the house, the street, the world. A part of him was happy. He was his first.

~~~~

Lycopodium in my blood, waiting. I wait. She will come.

I hear her whispering in the night. Since she escaped I knew she would come. Come for me. In the night. Whispering.

I remember the night when another came. All my fault. He slipped through the portrait and came to our room. Slashed the curtains. Woke him up. But I didn't see.

That is how it will be when she comes. In the night. Whispering. She will slip by and it will be my fault. She will come to our room. Slash the curtains. Wake me up and then-

She escaped as well. With help. She is not as good as he. He is dead. Dead is me. I am him? She killed him. She will kill me. Unless I kill her first.

I see the blood on my hands and in my hair already. I wash my hair but it is still there. It is brown, not black like Harry's. Like Harry's. No, not Harry at all. It is brown and I can see the red in it. The red in me. I go to the bathroom and think hard. I don't know how, and I should worry. When I do know how it goes wrong. When I don't....

I don't care. I must get rid of the blood. I point my wand and think and wish and try and now it is black. No blood in the black.

Why is your hair black Neville? she asks. She is Ginny. 

Just wanted a change, I say. She smiles. Ginny is always nice to me. Hermione might fuss, but Ginny doesn't. Except over Ron.

I like it, she says. It makes you look dangerous.

I am dangerous, I say. She laughs. I laugh. I am Neville. I am never dangerous. I like plants. Like the lycopodium. In my blood. Waiting. 

I will kill her and the blood will never go but she will kill me first unless.

And I wonder, is it better to die or to be a murderer?

~~~~~~~

I find my wand in the room. I never carry it now. I don't need magic. I can't need magic. It doesn't work now. Not since.

Is it my wand? Yes. I put it in my pocket. I feel like pretending. She is gone, but I still feel her, so I decide to leave.

I am gone.

~~~~~~~

a/n: More allusions. "I awake to find no peace of mind," is in the Coldplay song "Spies." The blood in the hair bit alludes to the liner notes for the song "Jet Black New Year" by Thursday. One of the band members wrote a bit about seeing a boy die and then seeing blood in his hair that he could only get rid of by dying his hair black. What Neville is talking about there is the night Sirius snuck into their room in PoA. There's a fic I don't like that alludes to a fic I've never read where Ron, I think, says something to Harry along the lines of "You were mine first." I'm not sure where I'm going with this at the moment, so I'm cutting this chapter off here. The next one might be longer. Oh, and Òthe red in meÓ is from ÒBluesideÓ by Rooney.


	6. in to the light

I walk down the alley, but there is nothing. It is warm, but I feel cold. It should be raining, I think, but it doesn't. I didn't think it would.

I kick things, the dirt, the trash, whatever is in front. I have changed my clothes so that I don't smell as bad. The wand is still in my pocket.

I am bored, and I think of the Aub. It hurts to think, but I do, and I want to see him. I lean against a wall and think of Hogsmeade. Nothing happens. I think harder, and my body grinds along.

I am there, but at first I think I must be splinched. My body aches, but it is all there. 

I walk to their door, but no-one is home. I think, the Aub is with Molly. I could go to Molly, but I am tired of her. I only want to see the Aub. 

I sit on the doorstep for a long time. I think to go in then, but I can't. They've locked the door. He told me how to undo the lock, I think, but I can't remember. Anyway, I feel too tired.

It is warm, but I want it to rain. I look up, but there are no clouds. All blue. I think of the lake at school and how green the grass will be. It is June now, so the grass is soft and green. I want to lie there, but I can't.

Suddenly I long for the second best.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"This is the end."

"I know."

"No. You don't. But you will." He pointed the polished stick at the figure on the ground, squinting to better aim it point blank. On the chest, slightly to the right. Right through her heart. His chest convulsed slowly. He felt the vomit rising in his stomach. He whispered something and a blast of light exploded from the wand. The wand bucked back, taking the boy with it, pulling on the sinews in his arms. The vomit thundered up his throat and slid from his mouth, warm and putrid. But all the figure could see was the light, traveling so slowly, so gently, sliding through her like glass and then-

"I hope you choke," he whispered through wet lips. The light arcked back, now sharply defined in the form of a small bird. A blackbird made of pale moonlight.

He stood slowly on unsteady legs, but the bird grew nearer, and his strength multiplied.

The figure began to laugh softly.

"You can laugh." He wiped his hand with his mouth. "You can laugh, but you won't come again." The bird flew towards him and melted into his chest.

"I will, boy-"

"No. You won't."

He staggered slowly into the main street, not knowing where to go at all.

Someone stumbled towards him, crying in agony. A familiar face. A bundle beneath his coat.

The boy reached out and touched the other. "You're leaking," he whispered without knowing why.

and

Sliding

and

Adieu

~~~~

He is in my coat, the Aub, against my heart. His is warm, but I am cold. I wish it would rain. He sleeps, and I sing to myself. To keep away the cold. Sucha chill. I sing the Aub song and my face is now wet and my chest hurts. It hurts, but I keep singing. It burns, but I do not stop. 

It comes out loud now. He is awake because I have scared him. I run now but hold him tight. He cries, but I am louder. The ground swims beneath us. Now my legs hurt too. The air sticks in my throat. I can't cough. 

I do not sing, but the song is still playing. So I cry out, to drown it away. So does the Aub, but the song is louder. 

I don't know where I am.

I dOnttt kkknow where i am...

I see hIM. nott the aauB. but hIM.

hhhhiiM

the fred

he smilless and he touch my side

i feel hiis hand

someone speaks. he is gone. in me. he is us.

i smile

i 

am

gone


End file.
